


number thirteen, stanhope mews

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Harry Hart Lives, Harry Hart character study, Hartwin is on the side but visibly there, M/M, Original Character POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: The young man who stepped out of the taxi was tall and lithe, a whorl of curls atop his head. He was dressed so impeccably, a finely tailored suit, that even Carolyn had to stop and admire. This is how Carolyn Thomas of Stanhope Mews comes to meet Harry Hart.





	

Carolyn Thomas has lived at 13 Stanhope Mews South for most of her life. It's a fair assessment to make as she had only been twenty-three and newlywed when she had moved in, quickly falling in love with the charming wrought iron balcony, a quaint little treasure tucked away off Gloucester Road. She thought it all very romantic with its potted plants by the doors, cobblestone streets worn out from decades of life coming in and out of the mews. 

 

For years after, she had introduced herself as Carolyn Thomas of Stanhope Mews, and for some it had made her seem very well-off, as the words lent themselves to something other and glamorous, Robert humouring her in his patient way. 

 

Oh, Robert. Her Bobby. What a handsome man he was the day they met. A handsome man he always was. Her mother had remarked that Carolyn was very fond of him from the start and Carolyn had laughed; fond was far too small of a word. It could not hold all of which she felt for Bobby, her adoration and devotion and joy at being around him. For a lack of a better way, Bobby was her world. 

 

They had met, of all places, on the steps of the University of London. Bobby was in his last year of his law degree, focusing on family law; she was finishing her typing classes, was in search of a job as secretary. There has been an opening at the student admissions and she was fumbling with her resume as she walked up the steps, running headlong into a man engrossed in the paperback book spread between one hand, briefcase in the other. In a spectacular show, papers went flying, Bobby pitching forward to grab Carolyn before she went stumbling backwards. She had grabbed onto his arms, a tiny yelp that she giggled away when he looked down at her with surprise and stuttering over apologies, bright blue eyes gleaming. 

 

She did not make it to her interview but Bobby did take her for lunch. She never much cared for typing. 

 

They married a year later. She held a bouquet of roses and her father had cried. Bobby was a good man, a perfect man. And he bought her a house on Stanhope Mews. 

 

There, they always lived. She never saw a reason to move. The house became theirs, captured their memories and their warmth and their welcome. It carried their pictures on its walls, their treasures in its alcoves, their love settling into every corner. The day Theodore was born, with his rosy cheeks and upturned nose and Bobby’s bright blue eyes, she said she could never imagine living anywhere else now. Bobby had agreed and kissed her head. 

 

They brought two more children into their home, Andrew and Mary, and life moved on around them in long stretches of satisfaction and fits of unrest. Their children grew, playing out on their terrace, their shrieks of laughter carrying across the mews, making this corner of their small world even that more magical. Bobby went to his law firm, he took his cases, he came home with a cry of joy every day as the children rushed into his waiting arms. Some days, he would sit between Carolyn’s knees as she rubbed his shoulders, and tell her of how difficult it was to do what he did, to lose when he knows that he was right. Her Bobby, tall and strong but a heart so gentle, so kind, she fretted for him, hoping his kindness would never be taken advantage of. 

 

Through the changing times, as London shifted and reshaped around them and times looked wholly uncertain, even when it seemed all so close to being lost; as the mews stayed as much the same as it always had even as their neighbours came and went, Robert and Carolyn Thomas of 13 Stanhope Mews were the staples of the row. As new homeowners and drifting renters occupied the quiet street, there was always someone around long enough to point them in the direction of the Thomas’, Carolyn always ready with a spiced coffee cake and tea and many stories to tell, Bobby with his vivacious spirit and a spot of brandy for those who wished it. 

 

That is how Bobby and Carolyn came to meet Harry Hart. 

 

The children were all in school the day Harry moved in at the end of the row. Bobby was at work. Carolyn was sitting out on the terrace when the taxi pulled up, trundling idly down the street, followed closely by a moving truck. It was May of 1988 and Carolyn will never forget it. She had been watering her plants on the terrace, her gardenias and daffodils and marigolds in full bloom in the late spring. 

 

The young man who stepped out of the taxi was tall and lithe, a whorl of curls atop his head. He was dressed so impeccably, a finely tailored suit, that even Carolyn had to stop and admire. Behind him followed a little dog, wiry brown hair, trim ears and a curious nose. It had no leash but followed its master without a word as the man sauntered towards his new home, hands in his pockets. 

 

“Hullo there!” Carolyn called out, leaning over the railing. 

 

The man looked around until he spotted her, hand over his eyes to stave off the glare of the sun. She smiled widely down at him, waving. He waved back. 

 

“My name is Carolyn Thomas,” she said. 

 

The man waited a moment, as if thinking of his answer. “Harry Hart.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Hart.”

 

“Yours as well.” He paused. “Just Harry is fine.”

 

“Oh, I know it's the new age and all but I am rather old-fashioned.”

 

At this, he smiled up at her. The moving truck was now being attended to by the movers, the loud crash of the back end rolling up and grunting as boxes and furniture began to be moved. She watched them for awhile; his belongings seemed sparse but expensive, tasteful. He had the Queen’s English. She wondered where he had come from. 

 

Harry had turned from her, was now giving instructions to the movers as where to set his things. 

 

Carolyn called out once more before heading inside. “My husband, Bobby, is at work, but please do come over for tea or a nightcap once you are settled!”

 

Harry had nodded up at her, giving one final wave, before he and his curious little dog disappeared inside the door. 

 

\--

 

From then on, Harry Hart would be an interesting addition to the Thomas’ life on Stanhope Mews. 

 

He did come for tea, the next Saturday after he moved in. He said he had studied at Cambridge, had moved to London and found a job as a tailor at Savile Row. Bobby had brightened at this, setting down his tea cup to lean forward with a questioning look on his face. 

 

“I have been in search of a new suit,” Bobby announced, patting at his belly, as he always did when he had a rather invigorating thought. 

 

“I can set you up an appointment,” Harry said and Bobby grinned, clapping him jovially on the shoulder. 

 

Bobby did commission Harry for many suits, Harry always delivering the suit at their home while Carolyn made tea or lunch or tended to the children (though as the boys got older, they were more interested in the hushed meetings between Bobby and Harry, watching the suit all but come to life as Harry added his finishing touches). Harry was a skilled tailor, knowing just the right cut and colour to complement her fair Bobby. She always sent a handwritten note of thanks to his home, slipping it in the mail slot before heading off to the shops, whenever Bobby came home and chittered about the boys at the firm obviously envying his tailor’s work. 

 

But Harry was not always so available. He had long hours and mentioned once or twice that since Kingsman was an international enterprise, he was called out at any time to tend to his clients needs. 

 

Carolyn had always been prone to fanciful ideals and the thought of jetting off across the world to exotic places made her eager, interested. Bobby humoured her, as he always did, a gentle and loving smile on his face as Carolyn asked Harry of all the beautiful places he had seen. And he told her, in vivid detail, of the bazaars in the east filled with gem-coloured cloth and rich spices; the sprawling Sahara teeming with life as the animals grazed; the mountains of the Alps that seemed to push against the very limits of the sky. He always brought her back postcards with brilliant sceneries, maybe a little jar of spices like cardamom and saffron that she never knew what to do with but kept like priceless antiquities on her open shelves, a cloth bag of fine jewels that earned her a cheeky wink from Harry if she asked if they were real. 

 

He and Bobby took to each other like old friends, staying late in the night sharing their stories, friendly heated arguments of politics, hushed whispers over books and worldly events and theories of philosophy and science and heart. 

 

Harry walked his dog, Mr. Pickle as Carolyn came to learn, in the mornings and walked to the shops with Carolyn on Sunday afternoons when he was around and always waved when he got his taxi to work and Carolyn was enjoying her morning tea on the terrace. For all the amicable easiness that Harry and Bobby had, there was something different between Harry and Carolyn. An understanding that needn't be discussed or even mentioned. A thirst for life and a need for the new, to discover and adventure. 

 

Carolyn didn't need to leave Stanhope Mews for that. She had Harry and Harry was willing to oblige his tales of far off places that Carolyn dreamed of. 

 

\--

 

It took years for her to notice Harry's erratic schedule. Of course, the nature of his work lent well to this and at first she wasn't concerned. But in old age, especially as a woman, when sleep seemed most evasive and she needed the cool night air to relieve the prickling heat on her skin, she began to notice, truly, the extent of Harry Hart’s life.

 

Bobby had seen him in the shop on Savile Row. He had multiple measurements and fittings there. The staff greeted Harry with old familiarness. Bobby had even taken Carolyn on a walk past there one evening, showed her the smartly dressed mannequins and gold plaque beside the door. It was real, she knew that much. 

 

But a tailor--even a tailor who travelled the world and was on call at all times--should not come home looked so wearied and shaken. It happened once and then again and then more often. She would be sitting in the shadows of the awning, her knees drawn to her chest, when the taxi lights would sweep across the mews, sharp pinpoints and great gashes cutting the darkness. The driver would dim them and stop a few feet from Harry's door. He would stumble out, dead on his feet, fumbling for his keys. The taxi would only leave when Harry was in the door, red lights glowing across the smooth cobblestone, the mews entirely unaware to Harry's strange arrivals, except for Carolyn. 

 

She never called out in these nights, even if she wanted to. She never saw him come home like this during the day but now that the children were out of the house, she filled her time with walks and classes at the local college and spending afternoons with old friends from typing school. She would volunteer at the local nursing home even though she was closer in age to them than to anyone else. She did not like to think of her old age, her mortality, her wrinkles and aching bones. 

 

Carolyn told Bobby of her worries and he just sighed and laughed. 

 

“Darling, he is young and living his life. I bet those wealthy clients of his like to try give him a run for his money.”

 

She conceded, agreeing he was probably right. But something didn't sit right with her. He would leave suddenly, asking Carolyn to check on Mr. Pickles or to keep an eye on house when he was gone. She always obliged. Anything for a friend. 

 

Something didn't sit right and she felt she needed to fix it, but didn't even know where to start. 

 

But he always came back with his little treasures and a warm greeting for Bobby, who was already pouring their drinks, and Carolyn did not need to linger long on the peculiarity of those odd nights. Not until they happened again. 

 

\--

 

“Harry, I've just noticed.”

 

This was untrue. They had had this conversation a few times before but Harry was politely evasive and always had a reason. 

 

But he was older now. It was getting suspicious. 

 

“Hmm.”

 

“You do not have a wife!”

 

“Oh, Carolyn.”

 

“A man as good looking as yourself should have a wife. With such fine manners, as well.”

 

“I’m rather married to my job.”

 

“Pish posh!” She flapped her hand at him and he smirked around his cup. “Bobby is wholly married to his job and he is still a wonderful husband. You are so attentive and have such fantastic stories. Any woman would be lucky to marry you.”

 

It had been years that they had known each other. Carolyn had lost count. Harry had come home a few days before but he had been gone almost a month. He was pale, lanky and worn, his bones jutting out against his suit. He looked ill and Carolyn invited him over for a hearty lunch, worried that he was not eating. She did not ask where he had been this time, and why for so long. 

 

They were sitting on the terrace. It was early spring and Harry was shivering, holding his tea under his chin. 

 

“I'm not so sure, Carolyn.”

 

Something changed in that moment. Between them. With her or with him. Maybe just her; Harry had always been the same. Another staple of Stanhope Mews. She had felt this change, like the wind shifting direction or a wave crashing upon the shore. It came and it went and you only notice it in the aftermath, in the trees bending another way, in the pebbles shifted and sand gouged as the tide retreats. 

 

She had stared at Harry and was trying to read him and beginning to understand that there were things she just did not know. Even fancying herself more experienced and more wise by virtue of the years she had lived, there were things she just did not know. 

 

“Harry,” she began but did not finish. 

 

He had looked away then, his hands tightening around his cup. He looked lost, almost, a look that did not suit him well at all and for the pulse racing in Carolyn, for the sharp ache in her chest and the swell of disbelief in her gut, she wanted nothing more than for Harry to look himself again. 

 

So she reached out and rested her hand on his knee. 

 

“It's quite alright,” she said. It was, it really was. Words aren't enough. She was terrified, for him, but it was alright with her and she hoped that he knew that. 

 

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting, settling on the corner of her chair. “I never wanted to say. It's not.” He looked up at her. “Your friendship has been everything to me. You and Bobby.”

 

“I know, dear.”

 

They sat like that for long minutes. The entirety of the mews had changed. The decades she had lived there, finally now it seemed grounded in the real world. The mews had always protected her from the atrocities of the world around her, her escape when it all became too much. It's cobblestone road and potted plants and quiet existence. 

 

Harry had changed that. She was still uncertain what that meant for everything else, for him. 

 

“You know,” she said, making her voice light and calm. “You know, I've always loved butterflies.”

 

One had landed on her marigolds, its wings fluttering as it stilled. She watched it closely and she felt Harry turn in his chair to look at it. He was watching, too. 

 

“They seem so magical, don't they? Starting as little caterpillars and emerging as something entirely different, new. Beautiful.”

 

“I suppose. I never thought of it that way.”

 

They spent the rest of their visit watching the butterfly as it moved amongst Carolyn’s flowers, taking its time exploring its small world, at that moment limited to her terrace and its myriad of flowers and climbing ivy’s, which were Carolyn’s immeasurable joy, before taking off and disappearing from Stanhope Mews. 

 

\--

 

When Theodore graduated from Oxford, Harry attended their little family gathering afterwards. He presented him with a fountain pen in a velvet lined box, engraved with his name and date. Theodore wanted to write novels, spent his days buried in the tales of Dickens and Wilde, the musings of Austen and Woolf. His room was filled with towers of his books, always threatening to tumble over with their precarious sway. 

 

Theodore had looked at Harry with such admiration that day, Carolyn’s heart nearly gave out. Bobby stood beside her swelling with pride, puffing his chest out. 

 

“Thank you, Mr Hart.”

 

“I do hope to see you published very soon. I would not refuse a dedication, either.”

 

When Theodore finished his first draft, he sent it in full to Harry. He valued Harry’s opinion entirely. Theodore called her a few weeks later and told her Harry had read every word, _every word and he even sent a handwritten letter saying what he liked best_. She believed him. It sounded like something Harry would do. 

 

Andrew left school with good grades, good prospects and the chance to either enter Cambridge or Oxford but set his sights beyond England, to the greater world. He travelled, far and wide; Carolyn likes to think it was Harry's influence, all those stories he told to her while Andrew sat at her feet, enraptured. He wanted to see it all himself. He was backpacking one day in South America, trekking the steppes of Mongolia the next. Canoeing the rapid rivers of the Yukon, discovering the mysteries and wonders of life in Madagascar. He sent letters and postcards and Carolyn showed every single one to Harry, brimming with excitement, living vicariously through them both. 

 

“I guess it's all old news for a traveller like you.”

 

“Oh, I can't say so. I've never seen the world as Andrew has. Always tied to my job.”

 

Mary's wedding is in the height of summer, a splendid day out in Derbyshire. They had Kingsman tailor the suits for the groom and his men; Harry was more than obliging, even if the groom had commented once or twice how tired the man looked. _Old age, my boy_ , Bobby had declared, his body shaking with laughter. But Harry was not that old, Carolyn thought. 

 

She had not expected him to come. He was surely busy. But there he was, looking debonair in a simple bespoke suit, a prim bow in place of his usual tie. He stood to the corners, a champagne flute always in hand. He danced with every woman who so kindly asked, whisking them expertly across the floor, an amiable and honest smile on his face. 

 

She had not expected him and there he was. She was so happy for it. 

 

“You are a marvellous dancer.”

 

“A gentleman must be good at all sorts of things.”

 

“Would you care to take an old bird for a dance?”

 

“My dear, I thought you'd never ask.”

 

They danced well into the night, even well after the sun had set and the guests had wandered away, the staff throwing the windows open for a breeze and letting all the stars and bright moon shine in. 

 

\--

 

She went to stay with Mary in Brighton. She had mentioned it to Harry in passing. He wished her a good trip, asked her to send his best to Mary and the children. She promised she would. 

 

She was to stay a few months. Get out of London and to some fresh sea air. She was looking forward to it but knew she was going to miss the mews desperately. 

 

Carolyn slipped a note into Harry’s mail slot, reminding him where she had gone and how long for. She hoped he would not worry and almost laughed at such an outrageous thought. Harry Hart, the absolute definition of poised and proper. He knew she could handle herself well. Her skin grew thick after Bobby had gone. She was what they called lively, vivacious. A real firecracker. 

 

It was Mary who mentioned the explosion at Imperial College over breakfast one morning. 

 

“Explosion? Oh my.”

 

“They think it was a gas leak. Terribly sad. A professor died. Some man walking by was also hurt.”

 

Carolyn finished her toast. She had forgotten to write Mary’s number on the note she left for Harry. She hoped he would not worry. 

 

\--

 

Carolyn never mentioned what she knew to Bobby about Harry, about who he was. She was worried what he would say because she truly did not know what ugly things could be unearthed. Bobby cherished his friendship with Harry but she was not sure if that adoration ran deep enough to withstand this. Not like hers and Harry's understanding had. 

 

She notices the men, after that day on the terrace. She's not sure if they had always been coming and she never noticed or if Harry had started bringing them around because she knew. In some way, she had given her blessing. 

 

It wasn't constant or even consistent. Months could pass with no one but Harry passing through those doors. They varied in age, in stature, even in looks, if Carolyn was to be that vain. There was one man she began to recognize, completely bald and rather intimidating. He came around often, always looking dour and heavy. She was never introduced to him. 

 

She never met any of them. They would usually stay a few hours, even some overnight. But never longer than that. 

 

Sometimes, Harry would see them to the door. Sometimes, he wouldn't even make an appearance--maybe a few hours later to walk Mr. Pickle. When Mr. Pickle passed, he never went out as much. Did not have much of a reason to, she supposes. 

 

So, it's why it was curious when she was standing out on the front step one morning that she saw the young man (still sporting that angular jaw, that rather hideous jacket of black and gold and a radiant smile) that had entered the house the night before leaving with Harry close behind. 

 

The young one was talking animatedly, hands shoved in his pockets, seemingly invested in his story as Harry locked the door and smiled back at him. Carolyn watched with interest from her front door, where she was standing to grab the mail and check her ferns. 

 

It had been years since Harry had left with one of the numerous men he had brought home. It had been even longer since she had seen him smile so easily. She recognized that look in his eyes, the wonderment and tenderness. It was achingly familiar. She had seen it in Bobby’s eyes, the day he asked her to marry him underneath the oak tree in the courtyard in Cambridge. And every day after. 

 

The man was young, wonderfully so, boyish despite his strong features and seemed to live wildly where Harry seemed so restrained. There was something candid about the way they regarded each other, how they moved around each other, like they could read the other just with a glance, sincere and uninhibited. 

 

She remained still and quiet, watching them from afar, as Harry looked down at the man still sharing his story, the man’s face shifting from incredulity to amusement as his story carried on, frequently glancing up at Harry to gauge his reaction, see if the height of the story was as funny to Harry as it was to him. For the hardness of his stance and the sharpness of his features, he looked wide-eyed and expectant staring up at Harry. 

 

And there was Harry with a look so utterly besotted, Carolyn almost laughed at the sheer wonder of it. 

 

She did not judge all those years before. She would not judge now. 

 

“Good morning, Carolyn.” Harry had spotted her and she started, clutching her letters to her chest. 

 

“Morning to you as well, Harry.”

 

Harry levelled her with a stare, one equal parts searching and amused. The young man looked between the two of them, a tilted grin on his face. 

 

“Off to the shop?” she asked. 

 

“Yes.” Harry turned to gesture to his friend, who beamed and gave a two-fingered salute. Harry looked exasperated but he said nothing of it, like he was used to it already. “This is Eggsy Unwin. Eggsy, Carolyn Thomas, a dear friend. He's my--apprentice. A new tailor for Kingsman.”

 

“Is that so?” Carolyn reached out and Eggsy shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Unwin.”

 

Eggsy’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Harry. “Eggsy’s fine, ma’am. Mrs Thomas,” he added when Harry gave him a pointed look. 

 

“Hmm, well I am rather old fashioned,” Carolyn said with a grin. She didn't have to look to know Harry was rolling his eyes. “Good day, gentlemen.”

 

They bid her farewell, Harry always proper and courteous with kind greetings and a tip of his head. Eggsy was a bit more of a mystery because he nodded vigorously and waved and shuffled towards Harry, bumping his shoulder against Harry's as they made their way down the cobblestone towards Gloucester Road. She felt like she had seen him before but there had been so many. At her age, she doesn't know if it's old memories creeping up from the foggy depths or just her bored mind creating new ones.

 

There was something, too, in the way Harry looked at him. Not just the fondness. Almost like a sadness but she couldn't pinpoint why. 

 

She waited until they reached the road, enamoured with the way they were such glaring opposites and yet--well, anyone would be a blind fool to deny the way they looked at each other. 

 

\--

 

She has a headache that day. She was supposed to mail a package to Mary’s twins, some sweets and clothes for the summer as their birthday is coming up, but she can barely get out of bed. So, she unplugs her phone to avoid any callers and goes back to bed. 

 

She never had much use for mobiles or computers. She likes letters and phone calls and walks to the park. She likes her books and her flowers. 

 

So, she sleeps during V-Day and wakes to sirens wailing in the near distance, rising and falling with each screech, and another noise, something more consistent and terrifying. 

 

Screaming. Somewhere in the mews, someone is screaming. 

 

\--

 

When Bobby had died, Harry had been away. He had heard, somehow. But it was days before he would come back, missing the funeral, the children having stayed as long as they could but needing to get back to their work. They didn't want to go, she knew this, felt it in their hesitation on the front step. 

 

Bobby was gone. Their father gone. His brandy sitting on the bar top. His slippers by his favourite chair. He had been reading about the history of Stalin’s gulags and he was almost finished. He had been telling Carolyn all about it when they sat down for supper each night. 

 

He had retired only four years before. He was seventy years old and Carolyn’s entire life in the mews seemed but a wistful, far away dream. A life not her own, she found it hard to believe it ever was. She did not want to think at all. 

 

She heard the taxi pull up, a grating sound that cut through her sorrow like a knife, made her flinch when the door slammed shut. 

 

There was a knock on her door and she did not want to answer. But she did anyway. 

 

Harry was standing there. He had a wooden box in his hands. She wondered absently what he had brought this time. She felt distantly angry at his absence, that he wasn't there to say goodbye. 

 

Bobby had been so terribly fond of him and it tormented her that he could not be there. 

 

“Carolyn, darling.” Harry stepped in through the door, holding the box close. “I am so sorry.”

 

“He had hoped to see you when you got back,” she said. She realized her hands had been shaking and she tried to hide them in her housecoat pockets. “He wanted to get another suit.”

 

Harry nodded. 

 

“He would be so upset you weren't there.” Her voice trembled and she felt so terribly old, everything aching. The tears make her cheeks feel hot, her head pound dully. “He would have wanted you there.”

 

Harry looked down at the box in his hands. 

 

She started to cry. 

 

“I miss him so much, Harry.”

 

Harry had set the box down on the table by the door. Where Bobby had always set his hat and his keys at the end of the day, calling out for her in his sing song voice, _darling dear I am ho--ome!_

 

She stared at the empty bowl. She had already packed his stuff away. She couldn't bear it. 

 

“So do I.” Harry pulled her into his arms, wrapping his long arms around her shoulders, keeping her close. 

 

In the box were butterflies pinned to boards wrapped in velvet, exotic flowers pressed between pages. He had brought them to her. She wanted to start collecting, had admired his own frames filled with every butterfly imaginable, in all sorts of glittering and earthy colours. She had said that they were stunning and Harry had agreed. 

 

\--

 

Andrew calls first. He is well, unharmed. He had been cycling through Tibet. He was alone. He says he's tired and wants to sleep. 

 

Theodore calls next. He doesn't say much. She knows he's hiding something. But he's always been that way. It's his bright blue eyes, Bobby’s eyes, sparkling with mischief but enchanting enough that it got him out of trouble. That poetic instinct to keep secrets. 

 

Mary takes time. Her voice wavers on the phone, a throb against Carolyn’s ear. No one is hurt but they had to take one of the boys to the hospital. He lost two fingers, an axe. Carolyn has to grip the table to keep from collapsing as Mary says, there was so many people, Mum. I could smell all the blood. 

 

For awhile, she doesn't leave the mews. She has enough biscuits and tinned soup to last her. She doesn't need much these days, little appetite. She keeps the news off. She reads the paper, the summary of events, the endless pages of names of those who died. She stops reading after the second page, the names blur together and she doesn't recognize any of them anyway. 

 

It takes her a week to realize that Harry has not come home. That he has not stopped by. 

 

She takes a chance, to leave, standing in her doorway, peering out onto the empty street. But it's not empty. 

 

A man in a pin-striped suit is standing at Harry's door. But it's not Harry. He turns slightly. A sharp jaw. Someone she does know. 

 

“Mr Unwin?”

 

Eggsy turns. He looks vastly different in the suit, his hair parted and swept back. A pair of black glasses perched on his nose. 

 

“Mrs Thomas.”

 

“I don't think Harry's home.”

 

There is a look on his face that makes Carolyn want to shut the door, the bleakness of it harrowing. A boy that beautiful, that full of life, should never look that way. She regrets stepping out the door. 

 

“No. He's... uh--”

 

She knows. She should have guessed. Harry had always told her when he was going to be gone. 

 

“He didn't make it.”

 

Eggsy shakes his head. He's rubbing his hands across his trousers and Carolyn thinks Harry wouldn't like that, maybe it ruins the suit, wears down the fabric. But he looks so far away, like he's not sure why he's here. Eggsy looks down the road and he looks hopeful, just for a moment, before he drops his head and begins to cry. 

 

She crosses the short way, her slippered feet shuffling with a speed she thought she no longer had, and pulls Eggsy close. He shudders in her arms and she tries her best to hold onto him. 

 

“I miss him, so _fucking_ much,” Eggsy mutters into her shoulder. 

 

Harry, sitting on her terrace, telling her of the world. Sitting in the parlour with Bobby and drinking their brandy and arguing in jest. The years of holidays cards and thank you notes and pretty jewels and spices she never used. Bobby's suits still hanging in the closest. He was buried in one of the suits Harry had made him. 

 

And she thinks of this boy in her arms and she remembers, vaguely, the devastation that came in the wake of Bobby being gone. She holds Eggsy close because she knows what it's like to be the one left behind, the agony in continuing on when the other does not. How it seems far too large and much too cruel and without end. 

 

But she knows where it comes from, that it began in a love so deep and so true, that even in death, it could not be forgotten, could not be removed. It was part of you, for all the happiness and all the sorrow it would bring. 

 

She is happy Harry had that, even if it was at the end. 

 

“Oh, love. So do I.”

 

\--

 

There is a new face on the street. Someone has taken over the house at the end of the mews. He is young and he smiles freely and he waves at her in the mornings before getting in his taxi, the same one Harry always took. All the neighbours have changed, someone even moving out in the last few weeks, though they don't stay empty long.

 

It doesn't matter; she knows him already. 

 

One morning, she is painting on the terrace, her easel situated out towards Gloucester Road, her tubes of oil paints and brushes on top of her garden table. It's something new to do. She knows she's not very good but her days are getting longer and she needs ways to fill them. 

 

She hears a voice rise above the quiet and peers down over the ledge. Eggsy is locking the door, a leash wrapped around his arm which leads to a compact little ball of fur. 

 

“A bull dog?” Carolyn calls out. 

 

Eggsy shakes his head, jostling the leash lightly. “No, it's as big as he gets.”

 

The dog stares blankly at her and she finds it oddly charming. 

 

“Well, if you ever need me to dog sit, just ask.”

 

Eggsy gives her a salute before walking off down the mews. 

 

He comes and goes, just as Harry did. He doesn't have the stories Harry does but he comes by for tea when he has the chance. He talks about his mums new job and his sister who is trying to talk in sentences ( _The words is hard to make out sometimes but she's trying, yeah?_ ), about the all the things he's learning at the shops like different cuts and contrasting colours and the right fabric for different occasions. He talks about how he's repainted. He sounds distant when it comes around to Harry and the house and she never asks further, changes the subject swiftly. 

 

She comes to enjoy Eggsy’s company, his quick wit and crass humour. He makes her laugh and he reminds her so much of Harry that it sits like a weight in her chest. She will never tell him this. She thinks he already knows, how his own mannerisms have taken on familiarity of a man they both once knew. 

 

She shows him the pressed flowers, the shelf of spices, the postcards. He handles each one with care, cradling them in his hands. She tells him about the suits he made Bobby. About the butterflies. 

 

He always smiles like he needs to hide something. She looks away when he rubs his fingers across his eyes, pushing his glasses up his forehead, tousling his finely parted hair. 

 

\--

 

She wakes one morning to screaming. She grips the pillow beneath her. It sounds just like that morning. Eight months ago now. 

 

But the screaming is followed but something crashing, shattering, and then slamming. Something heavy. 

 

She rushes out of bed, not even bothering with her house coat. She unlatches her window and leans out to overlook the mews. It's early dawn and the cobblestone is covered in soft warm light. 

 

At the door to 11 Stanhope Mews stands a man with a glass scattered around his feet. He is impeccably dressed. Curls atop his head. 

 

She has never seen someone come back from the dead. 

 

“Hullo there.”

 

Harry Hart turns to look up at her. He covers his eyes to stave off the sun. He doesn't smile but he looks relieved to see her standing there. 

 

She does not know yet what she feels. 

 

\--

 

She invites him in for tea. She stands over the stove as the kettle begins to whistle. She has put on her house coat, at least. 

 

Harry is seated at her kitchen table, drumming his fingers against it, looking at ease and displaced. He looks at home here but she had created a new place after that day, a world in which he no longer existed. He looks like he belongs here but maybe it was for another time. 

 

She knows why Eggsy would not let him inside. It's difficult to let someone in when you have locked that part of yourself away. 

 

“He changed the locks on me. I had to knock.”

 

“You didn't even bother to call ahead?”

 

Carolyn wondered if he was ever really as much of a gentleman as he made himself out to be. He could be just as irreverent as the worst of them when he put his mind to. Or maybe it was when he didn't put his mind to it at all. 

 

“I met him at the shop.”

 

“Did he know you'd be there?”

 

The kettle whistles. Harry's fingers stop drumming. 

 

“No.”

 

“Oh, Harry.” She lifts the kettle from the burner and sets it on a rack. She's always worried she'll scorch the counter. “What happened to you?”

 

He tells her. He had been in Kentucky and he had been shot. He had been in a coma for two months, needed another three to recover. She notices the twitch in his left hand, the jagged scar across his temple. She drinks her tea while it's still too hot and chokes it down; she can't taste her biscuit after. 

 

“Why didn't you call?”

 

Harry is staring out the window. He looks annoyed, but not even that. Exhausted, mostly. Reserved in a way that is not cultivated. So unlike him. 

 

“We fought. Before--” Harry clears his throat. “I said things I regret. I didn't know--I wasn't sure how to apologize. If he would even want it.”

 

Carolyn stares at Harry, at her oldest and dearest friend, and if it weren't for her old age and her arthritis, she would slap him. 

 

“Harry Hart, for as educated as you are, you can be a truly daft arsehole.”

 

Harry looks rightly offended and she is glad for that. 

 

“That poor boy has spent months thinking you were dead, living in your house. What ever made you think he wouldn't want to see you again?”

 

Harry makes a noise, something like a mix between resignation and irritation. He is stubborn, if anything, she thinks. 

 

“I'm a foolish old man.”

 

“We are all foolish when it comes to love.”

 

He doesn't even deny her this. He slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. He leaves his hand there, over his mouth. Carolyn takes another drink of her tea. 

 

“I think he feels much the same,” she says. “Even if he threw a vase at your feet.”

 

“I think he was aiming for my face.”

 

Outside, through the open kitchen window, someone is cutting their grass. Someone is walking through the garden. A car slows down on the alley behind them, as if searching for something or going around an obstacle, and then speeds off again. 

 

Life carries on and Harry Hart is alive. What a strange world she has woken up to. 

 

“It is never too late to apologize. Even when he is so angry.”

 

\--

 

Her weeks are busy spent talking on the phone with Theodore, Andrew and Mary. They are discussing plans for Christmas, wondering if they should come home to the mews or head out to Derbyshire, Mary’s in-laws summer home free to use as they will be holidaying in Spain, for something different to do. Get out of the city, away from all the noise. All the memories and lingering pain that the city carries. 

 

She walks to the shops, picks up new paints to try. She is doing flowers, now that winter is coming. She decides she needs something bright in the house, something cheerful as the days grow dull. She goes to tea with her friends and she reads her books. She tidies and watches the telly and cleans her gardening pots, tucking them into the storage shed on the terrace Bobby had built her years ago, weathered now but strong. She touches its oiled hinges and marred wood before locking it for the season.

 

It's nearing the end of November and she thinks to pull down the tree from the attic. They've decided to spend the holidays at the mews. Carolyn wants to invite her friends for Christmas Eve dinner, she tells her children, something extravagant and fanciful and ornate and completely unnecessary. Too much wine, too much food is her plan. She feels that they all deserve it. 

 

She has her list already made, invitations written and addressed. There are two separate invites for a Mr Hart and a Mr Unwin and she touches them with her fingertips, uncertain if she still needs two of them. 

 

She should bring the tree down, the lights and glass ornaments. But the attic is cramped and the stairs wobbly. She is far too old for this. She steps out of her house with bright determination and instead of turning to Gloucester Road like she usually does, she turns towards the black door tucked into the corner of the farthest building at the end of the mew. She adjusts her jacket, tugs her scarf, and knocks. 

 

She is mildly surprised when Eggsy opens the door, half-dressed in slim trousers and a starched dress shirt, his tie only partially knotted. 

 

She hasn't seen either of them the entire time since Harry arrived back at the mews and though she has wondered each day what Harry made of her advice, she had never went prying. 

 

“Mrs Thomas,” Eggsy says. 

 

“Ah, I'm glad I caught you before work! Would you mind helping an old woman with a small favour?”

 

Eggsy grins, opening the door wider and ushering her in. “You know I’d do anything for you, Mrs Thomas, but I'm already late.” He's off down the hall, rounding the corner. A chair scrapes in the dining room, something clinks against the counter. “But Harry's home for the day, so he can help!”

 

And indeed there is Harry, head peering out from the sitting room opposite of where Eggsy had gone, dressed down in a navy cardigan and slacks. The soft whorl of curls atop his head. She had almost forgotten that and it seems an entire lifetime ago now, Harry arriving at Stanhope Mews. All the lives they had lived and here they were. Still, here they were. 

 

“I’d be honoured,” Harry says with a grin. 

 

Eggsy comes back out from the kitchen. He's finished his tie, is flipping down his collar. Harry steps forward to adjust it, almost automatically like they did this every morning, smoothing it down with the back of his hand. Eggsy rises up on his toes to kiss Harry, his own hands coming to curl around the one Harry has left pressed against the buttons of his shirt. 

 

Carolyn looks down at her shoes, knocks the toes together. She feels the warmth of the house, the smell of green tea and happiness, the soft tick of a clock in the hall. Well-lived. 

 

“See you for lunch?”

 

“Always.”

 

Harry takes his coat off the hook and offers his arm. It's a short walk but he is a true gentlemen, she realizes, as she smiles at the ground beneath their feet. 

 

“It's good to see you two happy,” she says, patting his arm. 

 

“Thank you, Carolyn.”

 

It's early morning. The light is grey and bright and someone has their Christmas lights strung out across their balcony. They blink cheerily in all colours. Christmas is coming steadily to the mews. They've been calling for snow and though the cold weather makes her joints ache, and she will need to buy salt for the front steps, Carolyn is looking forward to a white Christmas. 

 

She has always believed there was something magical about it, snow and Christmas and the end of the year, new beginnings and all that. But maybe it was just Stanhope Mews, miraculous in its hushed reality and all the endless possibilities it had given her, and all the wonderful things it had become to her and everyone who lived there.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally woke up and wrote this entire thing in a day. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Carolyn was fully formed in my mind. I've always kind of liked stories that were told from an outsiders POV. I tried to tie in as much of the canon as I could (it's already so long omg bravo if you read this disaster) but I wanted to show a softer side to Harry. 
> 
> Also, subtle (or not so much) parallels between the Thomas' and Harry and Eggsy. So clever! *pats self on back*
> 
> Come find me over at Tumblr at **[notbrogues!](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com)**


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